


i wish i didn't need you

by impulsemomentum



Series: glass shards and broken hearts [2]
Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Hate Sex, M/M, PWP, Unhealthy Relationships, i hate myself lol, ish?, they're both fucked up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 13:40:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19724797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impulsemomentum/pseuds/impulsemomentum
Summary: “I brought wine.” Pierre offers. He hesitates, then sets it on the kitchen counter. The soft clank is magnified in the tense silence between them.“I saw.” Nico can’t resist a snort. “That’s your plan? You bring wine and we fuck and make up?”





	i wish i didn't need you

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: real people real lives not real fic
> 
> i hate myself LMAO don't kill me
> 
> title from senorita - camila cabello ft shawn mendes

Pierre shows up Saturday night, almost the morning of Middle Sunday, with a bottle of Sauvignon in his hand and an inscrutable expression. Nico opens the door and considers, for a moment, slamming it back in his face. He opens it wider instead.

“…Can I come in?” Pierre won’t meet his eyes.

No. “Sure.”

Pierre toes off his shoes before he comes in and shuts the door behind him, and suddenly Nico’s rented house feels smaller than locker rooms at futures tournaments.

“I brought wine.” Pierre offers. He hesitates, then sets it on the kitchen counter. The soft clank is magnified in the tense silence between them.

“I saw.” Nico can’t resist a snort. “That’s your plan? You bring wine and we fuck and make up?”

Pierre inhales sharply through his nose. “Nico…”

“Stop.” Nico says, tears at a piece of skin on his thumb. “Just stop. Take your wine and go fuck your girlfriend instead. You can’t just…you can’t.” He doesn’t really have an expression to quantify what they’re doing. He’s just so _tired_.

“Nico.” Nico’s not even looking at him, but he can hear the thread of steel forming in Pierre’s voice, can tell that he’s gritting his teeth the way he does when he gets angry. “Maybe I fucked up, okay? Is that what you want to hear? Do you want a laundry list of all the ways I’ve fucked up so far?”

“That’s for your coach, not me.” Nico says wearily. He presses a hand to his face. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“Then ask me to leave.” Pierre’s finally looking him in the eye. “Ask me to leave, and I’ll go. We both know why I’m still here.”

Nico swallows, and forcibly tears his eyes away from Pierre’s intense gaze. “I’m sure there’s a line of people waiting to fall on your dick.” He can’t bring himself to tell Pierre to leave, because he’s not sure if he wants him to.

Pierre takes a few quick steps and suddenly he’s gripping Nico’s chin, crowding him against the wall. Nico flinches. This close, he can feel Pierre’s breath on his lips, can smell his familiar, heady scent. “Ask me to leave, Nico.” Pierre practically whispers, forces Nico to look at him. “Do it, and I’ll fucking leave.”

Nico feels like they’re standing on the edge of a cliff, a pitch-black ocean awaiting them below, raging waves crashing into the rock walls. He closes his eyes and lets himself fall. He grasps at the collar of Pierre’s t-shirt and pulls him in, crushing their lips together.

It’s only a kiss in the most technical way. There’s lips on lips, but instead of soft, gentle touches, there’s a desperate madness to the way they tear at each other, biting down and drawing blood. Pierre grasps at Nico’s shirt, sending the buttons scattering across the floor, and Nico retaliates by digging into Pierre’s hips, leaving bruises the size of his fingertips. Pierre growls against his mouth, and Nico pushes him hard enough to send him careening back, landing haphazardly on the couch. He wipes at his mouth and his hand comes back bloody.

Pierre laughs, a bitter, choked-back sound. “Aren’t we a great doubles team,” He says, sprawling on the cool leather. “We fight, we fuck, and we don’t even play tennis together.”

Nico straddles Pierre, wrapping a loose hand around his throat. “Shut the fuck up.” He says hoarsely. “I’m gonna fuck you now.”

Pierre raises an eyebrow at him. Neither of them is particularly unsurprised by this turn of events.

The couch is, quite honestly, too small for two grown men who aren’t even sure if they’re fighting or fucking. Nico turns Pierre over, pins him down with the hand still on his throat, and tears his sweatpants down. Pierre pants, already hard and rutting against the sofa, and he groans when Nico tightens the pressure of his grip, fingers spasming where they’re holding on to the arm of the couch.

Nico places a knee over the wristband of Pierre’s sweatpants, trapping his legs, and pulls at him until he’s canting his ass up, panting and hands scrabbling for purchase against the leather. He doesn’t waste any time, holding Pierre’s cheeks apart and diving in with his tongue, licking him open one swipe at a time.

Pierre convulses beneath him, muffling a moan against the seat as his hand flies to the base of his dick. “Fuck, Nic-” His words break off into a long keening whine when Nico spreads his cheeks wider and grazes his hole with scrapes of teeth.

Nico eats him out until he’s incoherent, making the couch slick with his sweat, then buries a finger in him at once, curling the tip inside. Pierre jolts, too overwhelmed to even swear. He just moans as Nico adds another finger and begins thrusting at an unbearably fast speed.

Nico’s not gentle, because they still haven’t figured out how to be, and tears gather in Pierre’s eyes as his fingers stretch him too fast, too tight. Nico pushes himself in after working him with only spit and two fingers, and Pierre loses himself in the dry, slow, burn.

Pierre hears Nico’s restrained grunts as he pulls out, then slams back in, bottoming in one full stroke. Nico laces a hand in his hair, pulling his hair until Pierre’s scalp is burning and he flat-out sobs. He doesn’t know if he’s crying because it hurts, or because it feels so fucking good.

“I felt so fucking dumb,” Nico gasps out between thrusts. “Fucking career slam winner, and my fucking partner goes off and does this.”

“I’m not sorry,” Pierre sobs, “I’m n-oh, _god_ , Nico, I’m not, you know why I did this, _fuck_.”

“That doesn’t make it any fucking better.” Nico growls, and Pierre groans as he feels his hips snap against his ass, pace increasing in the way Nico does when he’s about to come. His t-shirt is still on, soaked through with sweat, and Nico pushes it up, leaving sweltering scratches on Pierre’s back as he pants.

“Just fucking come already,” Pierre’s hands flex helplessly against the arm of the couch. “Just fuc- _fuck._ ”

Nico comes with a final brutal thrust, a hand wrapping around Pierre’s windpipe and crushing it as his warm seed spills inside him. Pierre cries out as Nico finally lets him go and they collapse on the couch in a tangled, sweaty heap. Nico half-heartedly wraps a hand around Pierre’s flagging erection, and simply cups it as it slowly softens further.

“That what you needed?” Nico mutters tiredly. “You didn’t even come.”

“Fuck off.” Pierre says, dragging a tired hand over his face. “I’m still not sorry.”

Nico stands up, pulling up his pants as quickly as he tore them down. “You should go.” He says, swallowing past the glass shards in his throat. “Take your wine.”

Pierre is silent behind him for a moment, then stands too, a rigid presence behind Nico’s back. “Yeah. Okay.”

Nico doesn’t turn until he hears the door shut, and then he collapses back on the couch, head in his hands. He sleeps there that night, surrounded by the smell of sex and the acrid taste of bitterness in his mouth.

Pierre doesn’t text. Nico finds out he’s left Wimbledon through his Instagram story.


End file.
